Under the Eyepatch
by SakiSaki
Summary: Everyone wants to know what's there.


Kid Blink is known mostly for three things: being Jack's right hand man (next to Race, of course), having a wide, brilliant smile for every person he comes across, and for his eyepatch.

He's the loudest supporter of Jack's ideas and the first to fight for them. His grin wins the hearts of every dame in New York: sympathy from the lowliest streetwalkers, an extra penny from the high-class ladies in lace. His eyepatch has been firmly in place since the time he joined the lodging house, and probably years before. And all of these qualities are accepted, without question or a flicker of doubt, by the other newsboys – except, from time to time, that third thing.

This is one of those times.

Sure, from the moment any of us laid eyes on it, we had to ask. "What's with the eyepatch, Kid?"

Somehow, though, we never got a straight answer, and never thought to press the issue. It doesn't matter, does it? If it's all a scam, it's a damned good one. If it's to hide what's underneath, then it's probably best for it to remain hidden. Right?

Well, that's what I thought, and I say so. The others just stare at me for a moment, then fix their gaze back on Blink's good eye – closed securely for the time being.

He came in drunk again. He'd stumbled in loudly, bumping into the table where Race and Skittery had been playing poker and spilling the cards to the floor. After the two had complained enough to attract the attention of everyone in the room, Blink attempted an apology and fell unconscious in the nearest bed, plunging into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Although he'd clearly had too much tonight, Blink can drink most of us under the table. I never understood that expression until I woke up one morning actually beneath a table, an empty bottle of whiskey on my left and Blink's laughing face to my right.

"Ya been here all night," he'd said, giving me a hand as the room spun and crashed behind my eyelids. "I didn't have the heart to wake ya, but maybe next time you won't try to out-drink me, eh?"

I took his advice. Blink's a good guy, see? So why're we all standing around him now, as he's sleeping soundly, talking about doing… doing what I think we're talking about doing?

"Look, I told ya guys already what happened," Snipeshooter says. He's sitting beside Boots, the two boys' shoeless feet dangling over the edge of the top bunk and their faces shining with curiosity. "Spot shot him wit' a marble, years ago. It was blue to match his eye. It's how he got to be Brooklyn's leader."

Dutchy snorts and shakes his head. "I don't think so."

"—I know a guy in Brooklyn who saw it!"

"I don't even think you're close," he continues, peering at him over the rims of his glasses. Blonde hair falls into his face. "I mean, Blink's been here longer than most of us. Almost ten years, right? Eleven, maybe? And Spot's only been headin' Brooklyn for a couple years now, four or five, tops. It don't add up."

"And Spot ain't got nothin' against Blink," Boots points out.

Snipes frowns. Everyone turns to look at Jack.

"They's right," the Cowboy says, although without his hat and bandana now he looks no different from the rest of us. "It don't add up."

"Well, dat's 'cause only _I_ know how it happened," Racetrack announces. Once he's sure he's got all of our attention, he gets up from the windowsill and starts pacing, tinkering with his pocket-watch.

"See, Blink's pretty good at cards, right? Not as good as me o' course, but pretty damned good." I roll my eyes. He's clearly enjoying this. "Well, he wasn't always good. In fact, he was downright lousy – until I showed 'im the ropes, that is – but he kept playin' and playin'. When he was a little kid, he bet with some older fellas, got into a lotta debt. A _lotta_ debt, way more than he could handle." He pauses, hovering over Blink's face and lowering his voice. "So these guys made 'im pay wit' somethin' _else_." He mimes yanking out the eye, and I feel a little sick.

Still, right now it only feels like we're telling ghost stories. It's darker than it normally would be at this time of night because a storm's approaching, and it looks like it could get bad. The wind is howling like one of those banshee creatures I saw in a picture book once. And that's all it is - we're bored and dreaming up stories to explain the unknown. No harm done.

"Gee, Race, how is it you know this and the rest of us don't?" Skittery asks, voice heavy with sarcasm.

Race stands up sharply. "He trusts me, that's how."

"He trusts Jack more, and he ain't heard nothin' about it—"

"That's 'cause there's nothin' to know!" Snoddy interrupts, in a kind of singsong way. He's lying on a nearby bunk, propped up on his elbow and pretending to read a newspaper.

"Whaddya mean?" Race asks, sounding bitter. I can tell he's sore the spotlight's been taken from him.

"Exactly what I said," he answers calmly. Snoddy always seems pretty calm. "It's just a way of sellin' papes, and it works. I wish I'da thought of it."

Bumlets, leaning against the bedpost, raises an eyebrow. He's kneading his hat in his hands. "If it's just a scam, then why's he wear it _all the time?_"

This halts all side conversations. It's a valid point, and it's why we're all here wondering about it. None of us can remember ever seeing him without it.

"How's that possible?" Snoddy says. Now he's raising an eyebrow too. "One of us _has_ to've seen him without it, right?" He glances around at all of us. "Uh… right?"

No one answers.

"Like when he's bathing," Crutchy offers.

"I dunno about _you_, Crutch, but _I_ sure as hell don't watch 'im when he's bathing," Race says with a smirk. This gets a few chuckles, but doesn't offer any help.

"O-or when he's washin' his face," Crutchy continues, blushing.

Now, I know personally that Blink waits until everyone's out of the room at night so he can wash his face in private. I figure he does a similar thing when he bathes. I respect Blink and I respect his privacy, so I've never spied on him – never even considered it. I don't say this to the others though.

"Well, if no one's ever seen 'im wash his face, neither…" Jack murmurs, forehead wrinkled and gaze focused on the eyepatch. Crutchy nervously thumps his crutch against the floor, also staring intently at Blink.

"He always sleeps with it on, huh?" he asks quietly, but his voice still squawks a little.

Everyone looks around and seems to think so.

"Well if he always sleeps with it on," Pie Eater says, fiddling with his suspenders, "then maybe there really is a reason for it."

"And maybe we should see for sure," Snitch suggests. Itey, lying beside him, shoots him a look along with the rest of us. "Y'know, just to stop all this guessin', once and for all."

I swallow; my mouth is suddenly very dry.

"It ain't any of our business," Tumbler squeaks. I manage to nod in agreement, but it goes unnoticed.

"Ain't ya supposed to be in bed?" Skittery asks, standing over him. He speaks gruffly, but I can tell by the tone in his voice that he means to protect the little one. Protect him from what? From what I think this is leading to?

Tumbler crosses his arms stubbornly. Skittery rolls his eyes, grabs the boy, and puts him onto the top bunk of a bed across the room where one or two other kids are sleeping.

"Go ta sleep," he commands, but can't fight back a smile when Tumbler sticks his tongue out in defiance. He walks back over to join us.

"It ain't any of our business," he repeats in the boy's absence.

Snitch shrugs. "I was just sayin', it would stop us fightin' over it and we could all move on wit' our lives."

"He's got a reason for not tellin' us," Itey insists, eyebrows knitted in concern. "We're his brothers, he'd tell us if he really wanted to. And he don't want to, so I don't think this is a good idea—"

"Aw, pipe down, it was just a suggestion," Snitch mutters. I'm surprised at this because I can't remember the last time Snitch and Itey bickered over something other than foot cleanliness. The two turn away from each other, but both are watching Blink now with increased interest.

"We're just talkin'," Pie says, in a tone that implies we're not just talking anymore.

I keep glancing at Jack, hoping he'll order everyone to forget about it and go to sleep, but he just sits silently, staring at the eyepatch. He looks frustrated, and I think it's because Jack knows everything about all of us – that's the duty of a leader, after all - but he doesn't know the truth behind this. It must be killing him.

All I keep thinking is that if Blink were among us right now, he wouldn't let this happen. Not to a fellow newsie; not to a friend. But Blink's not here. He's out cold on the mattress.

"He probably lost it getting beat by his old man or somethin'," Jake says, untying his boots. When he pulls them off they clatter to the floor, louder than expected. We pause and strain our ears for any sound of Kloppman coming up and checking on us.

Silence. Old man fell asleep quickly tonight. "I came close to losing my eye during a few beatings," Jake continues sadly, looking around for sympathy.

"You was beat by those nuns at the orphanage 'cause you's a no-good liar," Jack snaps, glancing at him only for a moment. "You was probably askin' for it." This shuts Jake up quick, and he stares moodily at Blink.

"Could be right, though," Bumlets says. "Coulda been a really awful beating."

We all frown at the thought. Every one of use has had a hand raised to us, and some of our wounds are deeper than others', but none of us ever lost an eye.

But then again, maybe Blink didn't either.

"Maybe it was the Delanceys," Boots blurts out, getting our minds off our own past defeats. Snipes shrugs at the possibility.

"Could be. They's mean enough."

"Yeah, that's it! Maybe he mouthed off and they gave 'im the old one, two! Knocked his eye clean out!"

"Nah, if it was the Delanceys, they'd never let 'im live it down," Race says, waving a hand dismissively. "They'd be remindin' him o' that every chance they could get." He's nervously chewing on an unlit cigarette and shuffling an old deck of cards, watching Blink steadily. The circles under his eyes get a little darker. It's been awhile since I've seen him so tense, or heard him talk so sparingly.

"And besides," Specs speaks, for the first time all night, "why's everyone think he's _missin'_ an eye? Could be he was just born half-blind."

People mutter and don't seem satisfied with that explanation. I guess it's not exciting enough.

"What? Bad eyesight is a serious thing," Specs says defensively. He glances at Dutchy for back up, who sort of nods and shrugs in response. Specs sighs, and both scrutinize the eyepatch as if it'll offer an answer.

"I think I know how it happened," Swifty whispers. I jump because he's right beside me, and he wasn't just a second ago. The guy moves like quick, silent lightning.

He doesn't tear his eyes away from Blink as he continues. "He talks sometimes about a girl. A girl and an accident, from a long time ago. I bet he risked his neck tryin' to save her, got it slashed out—"

"That dame he was talkin' about last night?" Snoddy interrupts. Swifty nods, his concentration broken. "He was tellin' us about an old dime-store novel he'd seen." Swifty narrows his eyes, embarrassed, and looks back at the eyepatch. We all would've laughed if things weren't so uncomfortable.

"I'm tellin' yas, it was Spot wit' a marble—"

"—His dad was an angry drunk—"

"—Just a damned fake, I've seen him wear it on the other eye—"

"—He makes stupid bets with dangerous people—"

"—It was eaten by a rat, I saw it! It was _this_ big—"

"No, only one person here would know what happened," Jack declares above the rest, and I realize he's looking at me. Everyone's looking at me.

My stomach goes cold. This is all my fault.

When Blink passed out, I asked Snipes to help me pull his boots off so he could sleep better. I propped a pillow under his head and stupidly wondered aloud if he would feel more comfortable with the eyepatch on. Slowly but surely, all the activities involved in getting ready for bed had ceased, and that's when someone asked if he always slept with it on, and what he was hiding, and then it all just spun out of control…

"Whaddya know, Mush?" Jack asks me. I slink down in my chair a little. I don't want this attention – give it back to Race, or Snoddy…

"Yeah, tell us, Mush," Boots says.

"Ya are his best friend, after all," Pie adds.

I stare at my best friend. His left sock is scrunched up to the ball of his foot, almost hanging off. He has one arm draped over his stomach and is snoring softly, blissfully unaware of all that's happening. Is this what best friends do for each other?

"C'mon, Mush, tell us—"

"What did he tell you?"

"Whaddya know that we don't?"

"At least give us a hint—"

My heart is beating hard in my chest, and I can feel a heat crawling up my neck and into my face. The wind gives a high, eerie whistle outside.

"I don't know nothin'!" I almost-yell. My voice cracks, and no one seems to believe me. Why should they? I sure sound like I'm lying.

"Like I said," Snitch says, ignoring me, "there's only one way to find out." Itey shakes his head, disagreeing but saying nothing. Jack shifts in his chair slightly. "It would put an end to it," Snitch insists.

"Wonder why he never told me…" Jack murmurs to himself. He looks almost hypnotized.

"Boy, you guys sure are gonna feel stupid when ya see there's nothin' under there," I say, desperately trying a different tactic. Race crooks an eyebrow.

"Whaddya mean when ya say there's nothin'?" he asks. "So he really is missin' an eye?"

I wince. "No, that's not what I meant—"

"Is there nothin' under there? That is what ya said, isn't it?"

"Yeah, that's what I said, but that ain't what I meant when I said it, I mean—"

"Ya don't know much, do ya Mush?"

"Why don't ya leave Mush alone—"

"Just lift the damned thing!"

"Shuddup, Snitch—"

"It's his fault for getting so drunk anyway—"

"He probably wouldn't mind—"

"Enough!" Swifty leaps to his feet and creeps over to Blink's sleeping form. "Let's just do this already. That okay with you, Jack?"

Everyone looks from Jack to Swifty and back again. Crutchy continues rapping his crutch against the floor.

Jack grimaces like he has a bad taste in his mouth. It takes him a moment to realize all eyes are on him – except Blink's, of course. Jack runs a hand through his hair, thinking hard. Crutchy stops. Everyone freezes.

"No secrets between newsies," he whispers finally.

A sudden gust of wind bursts through the open window, causing all of the bathroom doors to bang shut. Another shriek of wind and the lights go out. A few people gasp, everyone's afraid to move; I hate to admit it, but I'm scared of the dark. Power outages are one of my biggest fears, and the timing couldn't be worse. I run my hands over the fabric of my pants and try not to think about it. If Blink were here, he'd know just what to say to calm me down…

Skittery hesitates and then slams the window closed. There's no fire allowed in the bunkrooms normally, but Pie lights a candle anyway, and I'm thankful. It causes our shadows to grow and dance strangely on the walls, and our faces to glow dark orange. I shiver, even though it's now significantly warmer.

It takes a moment, but Swifty moves in again. He lowers his hand very, very slowly over Blink's face.

Tumbler lets out a terrified yelp that causes us all to jump.

"Jeez, we ain't even done it yet!" Jake snaps.

Skittery whirls on Jake, grabbing him by the collar. "You, _shut up!_" He releases him with a glare and goes over to Tumbler, who is whimpering. "Go ta sleep!" he orders for the second time tonight. This time, however, the anxiety is clearly evident in his voice, and he pats the boy's back in an attempt to comfort them both. He whispers some words none of us can hear.

My attention is again on Swifty's hand, getting closer and closer to its destination. I've never seen him move so deliberately, and I realize I'm biting my lip so hard it draws blood. It tastes salty and warm, kind of metallic. I watch a drop of it land on my shirt in disgust.

Specs offers me a handkerchief without taking his eyes off of Swifty. I look at it in surprise. Sometimes I think those glasses of his make him see things the rest of us can't. I take the cloth and dab the cut gingerly, but it's the last thing on my mind.

"'At's it, Swifty," I hear Snitch mutter urgently. "Go for it!"

I can think of a million things to say.

But this is betrayal. But Blink's our brother, and this ain't right. But we don't have no reason not to trust him. But Blink is a good guy and deserves a little secrecy. But he would've told us if he thought we should know the truth. But this'll give him a reason not to trust us. But this is his business. But we all have something to hide. But things will never be the same after this. But Blink's my best friend and I won't stand for it.

"But—" is all I can manage, and the word drops to the floor uselessly. It doesn't matter; everyone's gaze is fixed on the eyepatch now. There's no turning back.

Everything in me wants to leave the room right now, storm outside and spend the night sleeping on the steps. I want to wash my hands of all of this. But I feel guilty, and the least I can do is be by Blink's side through it. How can something so small feel so terribly wrong?

I glance around the room one last time to see what everyone else is thinking. Jake and Snitch are leaning forward in anticipation. Pie, Bumlets and Dutchy seem conflicted – they're interested, but it doesn't feel right. Snoddy is bored and sure that it's all a scam of Blink's. Itey, Snipes and Boots are clearly shaken. They've got the curiosity, but not the guts to see it through. Crutchy looks sad. Specs is deeply concerned, Skittery is downright angry. Jack looks miles away and Race's expression is completely unreadable. Swifty is excited as he reaches closer. I can't imagine what my face looks like.

I fix my gaze on Blink. His breathing is quiet, reduced to little sighs escaping through his parted lips, kind of like the waves of the ocean. He is not smiling now. Swifty's body casts a shadow over him, like a villain in a moving picture. His chest rises and falls rhythmically, and his forehead is smooth and free of concern. Strands of greasy blonde hair rest upon the dark, leathery eyepatch. It's skewed ever so slightly. There's a noticeable difference in skin tone – it's far paler beneath – and this makes me feel queasy.

Swifty's fingers are trembling; they're so close now. Everyone holds their breath and no one makes a sound - I think our hearts are pounding in unison. Even the wind has died down for this moment. The silence is ringing in my ears like thunder.

_I'm sorry, Blink._ It rolls through my head like a mantra. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—_

The material is lifted, and Tumbler is the first to scream.

* * *

_Author's Note: Why is Blink an alcoholic? Why are Snitch and Jake such jerks? When did Swifty get so bold? Why is Jack such a crappy leader? Why won't Mush do something? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. That's just the way I wrote 'em. Clearly I'm not aiming for realism here._

_This is an idea I've had for awhile now, and it would not leave the back of my head until I put down in a story – for better or worse. So here it is, and I hope you liked it, because it was fun as hell to write – albeit kinda creepy. I definitely weirded myself out a little. Poor Blink!_

_Update: Because I've gotten several people confused, let me make it clear that this is it. I don't know what's under there any more than you do – it's a one-shot, folks! And that's all part of the fun, right? What's in your imagination is far more interesting than anything I could write.I wouldalso like to add that I don't reveal Blink's secret because **we have no right to know**, in my oh-so-humble opinion. And that's that. ;)_


End file.
